


The Travis Affair

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: F/M, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Vanessa Mullen.</p><p>Suppose that Travis 1 was another man entirely and had the memories of a dead real Tavis implanted in him... And when Servalan needed another Travis, she cloned that dead body and gave this clone the memories of Travis 1...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Travis Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in 'Southern Comfort 9.5'.
> 
> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).

Avon stood over Servalan as she lay sprawled on Hal Mellanby's floor.

      "Imagination my only limit? I'd be dead in a week."

      "But you have to admit, it would be a fascinating week."

      He allowed himself to laugh, the smile spreading over his face. Servalan had style, you had to grant her that. She held out a hand, graciously permitting him to assist her from the floor. The seduction wasn't over yet: the opening negotiations had been concluded, their basic bargaining positions established; now the game began in earnest. Avon took the proffered hand, with the slightest mocking hint of a courtly bow. They had plenty of time until the Mellanbys returned from their foray against the Sarrans. Perhaps she would convince him to abandon Blake, perhaps she wouldn't, but the game, with its multiple overtones of power and sex, was worth playing for its own sake.

      "All you want is another Travis, just someone to follow your orders."

      "Not true." Her voice was low and throaty as she caressed his cheek with a long slender finger. "I need a man with a mind of his own, someone whose skills complement my own. Someone-" her eyes traversed his figure up and down, and then gazed directly into his own, "- someone I find attractive."

      Avon tilted Servalan's chin up and kissed her ruthlessly. "Was that why you had him changed?" he inquired.

      "Changed? I can't imagine what you're talking about."

      He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her tight against him. "Can't you?"

      Warm and firm, her body conveyed a message that had nothing to do with the spoken conversation. "The records of Travis' trial are conclusive. No one challenged his identity - the judicial computer confirmed both fingerprint and retina scan." Servalan's hands moulded themselves against his ass, cupping the cheeks and pressing the heat of his erection against her. "Don't you think we should continue this conversation elsewhere?"

      But Avon's curiosity had been piqued. "So, you had the records altered."

      "On the contrary," her smile was pure innocence, "the records were not only genuine, even men from his own unit identified him when they were called upon to give evidence."

      "You're telling me that the original Travis was the fake?"

      "Correct."

      "Then why..." His words petered out. "Ah!"

      "I knew you'd see it." Her hands worked on his black, silk shirt, opening it and caressing the warm skin inside. "That's why I need  _you_. Working with slow minds is so tiresome." Fingers tugged lightly at individual hairs on his chest, teased lightly on the nipples and slid down to his side where he was always sensitive. It was tempting, so very tempting, to forget the subject in hand, force Servalan to the floor and take her there. But that was part of the game too: who gave way first.

      "You needed to get rid of the original Travis; he knew too much about your fiasco with Orac. But you didn't actually have the original Travis, only a man who thought he was Travis. To put him on public trial - it would have been too suspicious had he died suddenly - you needed the real thing. A clone then."

      "Exactly. The real Travis died in a space accident three days before he was due to take charge of the hunt for Blake. I needed him. His hatred and obsession for Blake gave him that extra edge. So, I made a new Travis."

      Which answered everything. The Federation were experts at memory manipulation. No doubt they'd taken what they could get from the dying man's mind and then topped it up with every detail possible from Travis' service record. Who their victim had been before the transformation didn't really matter. Avon found himself unable to care greatly about the man, although Blake would probably have found countless ironies in the situation. Blake, who had seen only the eyepatch that distinguished Travis so strongly, and never wondered about the man behind it.

      And what would Blake think now, if he could see Avon caressing Servalan? The thought was perversely delightful; thumbing his nose at Blake gave Avon a great sense of freedom. Travis' fate could wait for another day. Bending down, he scooped Servalan into his arms, and carried her into the bedroom.

      

      

Explosions blossomed across the sky, strange exotic flowers that could never have grown on the surface of this world. Fen stood amongst the low clipped hedges of the formal garden and watched with the patience of the very old. Why the invaders had come to this galaxy she did not know, but the ancient compact that the clonemasters had relied on for five centuries was over - each falling shard arcing bright against the sky was another step closer to death. The Andromedans had no need of those whose skill lay in cloning human tissue. When one side could use a weapon and the other could not, the balance to be gained by protecting it was gone.

      They were old. They were all old. Perhaps it was right that their time should come. Another deadly flower exploded, sending crimson showers flaring bright against the stars. It might have been possible to seek shelter against the radiation, but she chose not to go; her world was passing and she would pass with it. The human race in all its genetic diversity would continue. Life would continue, and that was all that mattered. People who demanded her services never realised that cloning was ultimately a form of stagnation. It was not for man or woman to determine the ultimate form of humanity; such hubris sowed the seeds of its own downfall. The clonemasters had realised that long ago. Manipulate men solely to gain strength and you lost versatility. Breed for one feature and there was always a cost elsewhere. The Rule of Life said 'copy, but do not create' and there was wisdom in that rule. Natural selection was slow, but it was certain. She wondered idly, how many people realised that the ultimate purpose of the clonemasters had been to prevent cloning? Promise to clone soldiers for one side if the other developed cloning techniques, and you had the key to stagnation in the art. A fine balance, one dependent on politics as much as threat. Fen had been a master in the art of diplomacy. She knew that, and had no qualms regarding pride. Making the occasional clone had always been necessary for political reasons, both to bribe leaders and to remind others of her power.

      Somewhere out there were men that she had created. Somewhere, buried in the soil of the garden, beneath the carefully trained roses, there lay the bodies of men whom she had allowed to be destroyed. She felt a mild regret for the death of the first Blake clone, but he had been newly formed with no memories of his own. Had Travis ever realised that that clone had been made, not to test her accuracy in making Blakes, but to test his own reactions as a newly formed Travis? To make a clone who was unaware of his own nature was the harder art - the memory transfer had to be an exact and painstaking process. She had spared the original Travis by way of atonement for the death of the living Blake clone. The clone she had created of that Travis had never come to wakening, but its dead body had been sufficient to convince Servalan of the man's death.

      Where was he now, the man to whom she had granted life in accordance with the Rule of Life?

      A new star burst directly overhead and she welcomed it with open arms even as the impact burst around her. The mysteries of this life were over, but she had faith in the next.

      

      

Travis laughed aloud as the ship flipped over in a tight loop. The sheer exhilaration of being in space again was worth any price. An alien ship flashed briefly into view and his co-pilot sent a short, sharp laser burst towards it. Twist and turn, the old skill hadn't deserted him yet. What did he care for the people in Krantor's corrupt empire? He hadn't volunteered for their sakes, but to be in space once more. The scanner showed a second ship moving to bracket him. A three second burn on the retros and he dropped back, evaded the trap, and headed low into the planet's gravity well. The Andromedans fought badly close to atmosphere, he'd already learnt that. Their ships might have been ideal for crossing deep space, but their total lack of aerodynamics gave them too much drag to manoeuvre well.

      Unheeding of his danger, the Andromedan pilot followed. Travis held his course, down, straight down, until the man beside him clenched at the arms of his seat in terror. Energy bolts streaked past them, fiery trails marking their passage. Only when the hull sensors showed a temperature approaching the safety maximum did he begin to pull his ship's nose up. A pursuit ship, he would have taken past the safety margin, but this aged blockade runner was twenty years out of date and in need of a good overhaul. The hull vibrated as the ship resisted the turn, the short stubby wings barely holding up under the strain. With the momentum gained from the dive, he sped upwards, twisting into another loop to come suddenly past the alien ship, allowing his partner to rake her flanks with laser bursts.

      Fire burst from the aft of the vessel, spreading in jagged tongues across her hull. Three seconds later, she exploded.

      Travis didn't wait for applause, not that there would have been any. There would be more of them out there. A tight orbit to lose any that were waiting for him to emerge, and then back into the fray. He hadn't had this much fun since...

      Since he'd met his counterpart.

      

      

It had been the week after Christmas, shortly before Mardi Gras. Freedom City didn't operate by any normal calendar, it simply moved from one festival to another. The croupiers had all put away the red suits which seemed to be traditional for the season and were wearing what passed for their normal attire. Establishments around the rink were busy, but far from overflowing. He'd heard about Travis almost as soon as the man had landed. It would have been hard not to. Every third client passing through the brothel where he worked took pride in informing him that he had a twin brother hanging around Chenie's place: another man with an eyepatch and an artificial arm. And every one of them thought that the joke was original to him. He'd nearly broken the fifth man's arm. It would have been so easy to claim that he'd tried to leave without paying his girl, but then too many people roughed up were bad for business and it was a good job, he even got a free night with the girls when he wanted it.

      Once his duty shift ended at 2am, he'd gone to Chenie's to investigate for himself.

      The woman behind the bar was statuesque and blonde, not his type at all. She raised an eyebrow at him as he pounded a fist on the wood to attract her attention.

      "Don't say it," he growled.

      She tossed her head carelessly and looked him in the eye. "I wasn't going to."

      "Where is he?"

      "Travis?" The amount of contempt she managed to get into the word was amazing. "Why should I know?"

      He dropped a ten credit piece onto the counter, where it span and finally wobbled to a halt. She pocketed the coin disdainfully, dropping it into some hidden recess in her overfrilled costume. "He's a spacer, always after news of incoming ships. You'll likely find him at one of the spaceport flophouses; him and Kline."

      "Kline?"

      "Never heard of him."

      Impatient with her obvious play for more money, Travis snatched out with his left arm, grabbed a handfull of frills and pulled her up against the bar. "Tell me!"

      Her eyes bored into him, unintimidated.

      "I don't pay protection money for nothing. There'll be someone here in less than a minute if you don't let go."

      She was probably bluffing, but he almost respected her for the ploy. He released her abruptly and watched as she patted the low-cut shoulders of her dress back into position before deigning to pay him further attention.

      "Kline," he growled, showing her another coin.

      "He's a doctor, saved a lot of passengers when there was an explosion on the Bari. They always hang out together."

      A doctor. His mind flicked back to Mariott. That was when he'd first suspected something was wrong. Mariott had saved his life, but he'd felt nothing, nothing at all, not even when he knew that Mariott was dead. It was as if the man had never really existed for him. And of course, he hadn't. Mariott was a part of the false past they had given him, part of the memories to make him hate Blake. If he had Blake here, now, he'd kill him. Not because of the manipulation, he could fight that, but because Blake had broken through.

      Blake remembered.

      And Travis knew _nothing_ of his real past. Fen had been unable or unwilling to help. "You must find your own life," she had said. He despised her for that. And the other Travis? If there was anyone he hated more than Blake, it was the man who had been given his identity, the Travis who  _had_  an identity.

      

      

The smell of the spaceport was what always lingered in the memory. Wherever you were, on whatever planet, the smell of exhaust fumes, grease, glycoline and spilt fuel was a heady mixture. Mostly, Travis avoided the place, it made the longing too great. He'd no money, no qualifications that he could show anyone and no desire to serve long weary months between planets on a tramp freighter when he'd once commanded the fastest ships in the fleet. He walked slowly between the docking cradles and the wide open spaces, the wind whipping at his jacket, floodlights casting a pasty yellow tinge to his face. Even at night the activity here never stopped: workers scurried between ships, loading and unloading, connecting supply lines, making last minute repairs and living the lives that dockers lived on a hundred planets.

      Identifying the Bari was easy, she lay in a repair cradle, the concrete around her filled with heavy-duty machinery. If they'd had any care for safety, they'd have been replacing the drive engine in a clean environment instead of out here in the open, but this was outside Federation space, regulations were lax, and the operators got away with everything they could. Doubtless more passengers would die before long. Travis shrugged. He didn't give a damn. There were only three things that mattered: his replacement, Servalan and Blake.

      If he'd landed on that ship and needed quick lodgings, what would he have done? The cheapest dives were beneath contempt, filled with the dross of humanity and offering no privacy at all. Privacy was important to him, he loathed his fellow human beings. He gazed across the ground, putting logic aside and let instinct take over.

      That way. He walked unhesitatingly to the right, passed through the casual checks made at the spaceport boundary and made his way down a series of small roads. This felt right. Not so different from the area where he'd stayed when he first arrived himself. He visited half a dozen hostelries, checking their database for his own name before hitting paydirt. Knowing your enemy had its advantages.

      He didn't bother arguing with the computer to admit him. He wouldn't have stayed in a place where everyone could gain admission, therefore his replacement wouldn't either. Instead, he buzzed the room, refusing to be silent until his enemy answered.

      <This had better be good,> an irate voice said. <It's four in the morning.>

      "I know you, Travis," he taunted, "I know everything about you. I know your mother, Mauritsa, your father, Benjamin. I know how Servalan betrayed you. I am your destiny, Travis."

      <You're a lunatic.>

      "I'm you. We're the same, Travis."

      The connection cut off. He waited. Sure enough, forty seconds later the lift opened to show his double wearing a loose fitting robe, gunhand raised and ready to fire. He'd been expecting physical differences, but it was still a shock. In spite of the eyepatch, the other man didn't look as he felt Travis oughtto look, didn't look like  _him_.

      Their weapons pointed steadily at each other. Two laseron destroyers, should make a nice mess of the hostel if they both fired at the same time.

      "Why not shoot?" Travis taunted. "Seen something you don't like?"

      His enemy - he refused to grant him the right to the name Travis - looked him up and down, taking in the eyepatch and the artificial hand with its inbuilt weapon pointing unerringly at his gut.

      "You're a complete and utter psychotic. No sane man would model himself on me."

      "But I'm not the copy. You are. Everything that you have ever been, you got from me."

      "Prove it." Short, sharp and to the point, just as he would have been.

      "You broke an arm when you were sixteen. Your sister is allergic to wheat protein. You served two years under Colonel Taylor and were promoted when you saved his life. You went-"

      "Stop!"

      Did he shout that loudly? Maybe there were some differences.

      "All these things are a matter of record. You're wasting my time."

      Was there a tiny hesitation in that voice? He wasn't sure. More personal memories then. But that meant revealing more of himself too.

      "You haven't been with a woman since Blake shot you. You're too proud to pay and too contemptuous of pity to take what some might offer. Those who seek you out for novelty's sake, repulse you."

      He could touch women now, because Sally's girls knew him. A co-worker. Once they had finally stopped noticing the arm, he had been able to share the occasional pleasurable night. But this other Travis would not have had that opportunity. Travis would be as he had been - almost afraid of sex. The thought galvanized him; he could  _hurt_  this arrogant bastard who had his memories but dared to look so different. It would be so easy. So very very easy.

      

      

Servalan looked up archly from the bed where he'd tossed her. Avon smiled and disrobed slowly. He could feel her excitement, wanted to fuel it further, wanted Servalan desperate for him in that heady peak of desire that led ultimately to the greatest pleasures.

      Fully naked, he let her eyes admire him. Avon stripped well, and he knew it: lean and lightly muscled, dark body hair almost black against his fair skin, cock jutting proudly before him. Idly, he stretched, drew a finger lightly across one of his nipples, teasing her with the action. Servalan kept her composure well, but he could see her quickened breathing and the hard nipples that pressed against the mauve fabric of the dress Dayna had given her.

      "You're still dressed," he pointed out casually.

      "So I am."

      Servalan removed her dress carefully, locking her gaze on him, then undid the tie around her arm with slow, deliberate movements, unwound it, and held it out to Avon. It hung in the air between them, its challenge mirrored in her eyes. He took an end in each hand, pulled it taut, then tied it around the crossed wrists that she held out to him. Oh yes, Servalan too knew the pleasures of a delayed orgasm, of waiting helplessly for another to choose the moment, of the sweet torments that could be undergone with someone else in control. He fastened the tie thoughtfully to the end of the bed. There was another aspect to this as well. He'd done this with Anna, both as victim and as tormentor, but never with anyone else. There was an element of trust involved in such a scenario. Unless Servalan had a very masochistic streak indeed, she was trusting him not to hurt her. What that said about her, or about her knowledge of him, wasn't something he was prepared to consider right now. He put the thought to one side and began to caress her, slowly, maddeningly, sensitising her entire body, touching her everywhere except where she most desired to be touched.

      

      

Power was the key. The knowledge was potent and exciting. Travis had come here to destroy his replacement, but until this moment, he hadn't known how he was going to do it.

      He smiled and saw the flicker of uncertainty in his enemy's one eye.

      "We need to talk," Travis said, "and this isn't the place to do it."

      The other man glared, then spun on his heel with military precision towards the lift. "Very well."

      "Wait."

      "What now?"

      Travis pressed his credit card into the slot by the entrance dispenser and tapped in a code. This was Freedom City. You could buy anything here: stimulants, narcotics, drugs to pleasure you, drugs to kill you. He knew them all, a catalogue of vice, a trap for the unwary, an entire pharmacy for the knowledgeable. When the tablets came out, he tossed one to his enemy who caught it automatically. 

      "Do you think I'm such a fool as to take anything you give me?"

      Travis shrugged, the gesture feeling alien. "It's just a stim. We've a lot to discuss and I've been up half the night already. I thought you'd want to be alert." He was on safe ground here. The military use of drugs was so routine as to constitute major abuse in its own right. A good unit could keep on max alert for forty-eight hours or more and still fight like Helots at the end of that time. Of course, it went beyond saying that they'd be incapable of anything useful for several days afterwards, but the fight would be over by then - won or lost. He tossed the second tablet in the air, caught it. "Of course, we could always swop if you think I'm trying to poison you."

      "Take that one."

      Travis swallowed it without any flourish and watched as the other followed suit. They were both aware that he could have taken an antidote in advance to any of the more common poisons. This contest was being played on the psychological level.

      Except that he had just cheated.

      Stiff was fast acting, by the time they were upstairs it would already be having an effect. Taking it himself had probably been unnecessary, excitement had already made him erect. Rape might not give him back his own identity, but revenge was the next best thing. He was ushered into the lift with formal and totally insincere formality. It was small. As the door closed, he had a brief instant of irrational claustrophobia. An unsuspected remnant of his former self or simply tension making him nervous? Would the man he had once been have contemplated doing something like this? Travis didn't know. All he had was the identity that he wore now and the hate that went with it.

      The door opened once more. Third floor, he noted mechanically. His enemy strode ahead, without looking back, and palmed the lock of the fourth door along.

      Triumph surged through Travis as he entered and shut the door behind him. The room was small, but clean and neat with the precision of the soldier. Familiar territory. He shivered abruptly; the room was too cold, or he was too hot. The drug was burning him; or was it simply his own needs? Everything smelled of musk and sweat. He took a step forwards. There was strength in that lean body in front of him, strength that he had to dominate. His breathing was fast and hard and he felt almost dizzy. He shouldn't have dialled the dose so strong. He knew without question that his victim had an erection - now the contest began.

      The blue eye glittered; the gun-hand rose jaggedly to jab into his abdomen.

      "What in Hell have you done to me!"

      

      

Servalan writhed under him, body trapped between his knees, hands fastened firmly to the bedhead. Avon caressed her flank with the lightest feather touch, barely making contact with the skin, letting only the fine body hair feel his passing.

      "Avon!" She tried to press herself against him, straining against the restraints.

      He looked at her thoughtfully, laughter creasing the skin around his eyes, one hand brushing the hair over her mound of Venus. "Do you want something?"

      "You  _know_  I do."

      "Like this?" His touch became rough, pressing her everywhere where her skin had become sensitive to his slightest touch. Servalan moaned, eyes closed, body responsive to his every move. Avon dipped a finger suddenly and sharply into her vagina.

      She cried out in simultaneous pleasure and disappointment as he withdrew the finger.

      "Avon, you're a bastard."

      "And you like me that way."

      She opened her eyes and smiled. "Of course."

      He swooped down and flicked his tongue over a hard nipple, blew on it while it was still moist, then abandoned it for an ear lobe, sucking and swirling his tongue around the small pearl stud she wore. The sense of being in control, of having total power over Servalan was exhilarating. Making love to his most dangerous enemy merely added extra spice to a scenario that he would have enjoyed in any case - Servalan appealed to the perverse in him.

      Servalan twisted, trying to reach him with her lips. Avon captured her head between his hands and raped her mouth, tongue invading, pressing between her teeth. She fought him, tongue twining with his own, every movement a sensuous battle. Her hips rocked under him, rolling his length and hardness against her, demanding that he take her. Avon revelled in the feel, hard and close to coming himself, but he could wait a little longer. Servalan still had too much control. He wanted her whimpering, begging, desperate for completion.

      He had barely touched her breasts yet. Now, Avon moved, cupping the warm mounds of flesh, moulding them in his hands, squeezing almost to the point of pain. He watched Servalan, assessing each minute reaction, each tremor of her body. Yes, she was sensitive here, beyond a doubt. Abandoning her breasts briefly, he reached lower, spread the folds of her labia and placed the head of his penis against her clitoris, making the smallest of movements against it.

      Her nipples strained upwards, small, hard peaks of desire. He captured one in his mouth, sucked hard, rasped his tongue against it while pinching the other between two fingers, rolling it back and forth. Succumbing to the triple onslaught, she cried out loud, bucking and twisting her body, simultaneously trying to escape him and to impale herself on him.

      " _Avon_."

      Hearing the ragged edge to her cry, Avon plunged deep, taking her completely in a single thrust. Moving hard and fast, he plundered her without care, riding high on the glory of the moment. At each thrust, Servalan rose to meet him, with a fervour equal to his own. As one, they drove together, sweat blending, sounds of passion merging, until he came with a burst so intense that it was shocking, collapsing to lie upon her even as he felt her climax against him.

      Her heartbeat thudded against him, the only sound apart from the whisper of a distant air pump. Avon lay still against her, descending slowly from the peak, savouring the brief moment of relaxation. Slowly the beat steadied to normal. After a minute or two, he unfastened Servalan's wrists and propped himself on an elbow to look down on her. Catlike, she stretched herself, easing taut muscles, then stroked him lightly down the back. "Next time," she murmured, "we'll try it the other way round."

      Avon raised an eyebrow. "Next time?"

      She smiled, confident. "Have you ever been sucked until you're on the very edge of coming, been unable to touch yourself with your hands to bring yourself off? Have you ever done this?" She ran a finger down his spine, carried on past the tailbone, laughed in delight at his reaction as she circled the rim of his anus. "Have you ever..." She whispered in his ear, crude obscenities that fascinated even while he was unsure whether to be intrigued or repelled by them.

      "Is that what you did to Travis?" he demanded. "Is that what drove him over the edge?"

      "What do you mean?"

      He looked at her in surprise. "You don't know, do you?"

      "Don't know what?"

      "Travis. It was Travis who gave the Andromedans the location of Star One."

      The look of surprise on Servalan's face was genuine, he'd have been prepared to swear to that. For once in her life, she had no answer for him.

      "I met him there - he almost killed Blake."

      "Almost?" Her lips had the faintest of wry smiles. "Blake would appear to bear a charmed life."

      "Travis didn't. He's dead. So, what did you do to make him decide to sell out humanity?"

      "Nothing. He was still working for me when we set up the trap to eliminate Governor LeGrand and her cronies, but on Goth, he deserted me without warning, stealing my ship."

      "Something in Freedom City, then? Blake mentioned that you'd placed a bomb in his arm."

      "But I didn't prime it."

      "Why not?"

      Servalan yawned. "If Travis had blown up Docholli, then I couldn't have used Docholli in my plans against Krantor. It was necessary that Krantor believed the bomb was primed - it's sole purpose was to rush Krantor into making a mistake."

      Avon kissed her roughly. "And I thought  _Blake_  was manipulative. But if it wasn't the bomb, what was it that finally drove him insane?"

      Servalan pulled him down for another kiss. "We may never know."

      

      

"What have I done to you?" Travis laughed, stiff-induced passion overriding the fear he ought to have felt. "Nothing. Not yet." His enemy's eyes were strained, the confidence was gone. He was winning the first round already. Without warning, Travis lashed out, chopping at the other's gunhand. It was all a matter of knowing the circuitry. If you hit just  _there_  it should disable the firing circuits for about a tenth of a second.

      The shot flashed between his feet, charring a small hole in the cheap, shoddy carpet.

      He shoved hard, pushed his enemy back onto the bed, forcing the gunhand over his head. Being this close was unnerving. Another man against him, the pressure of their bodies against one another, the shine of dark, glossy hair, even the unyielding rigidity of the metal arm in his hand - all were part and parcel of this man, part of something that excited him. He could control this, have power, regain what Servalan had stripped away from him.

      "I'm going to remove the trigger circuit," he hissed. "If you try and stop me, I'll do it the easy way, by shooting off your hand."

      The body under him was rigid with fury, but no verbal protest was forthcoming as he opened up the arm and removed the circuit. Even that silent fury was exciting. Reckless now of his own safety, he forced a kiss on his victim, enjoying the other man's attempts to avoid him, even as the firm swell of cock pressed against him.

      "You want this," Travis breathed. "Deep down inside, you want this, because you need a  _real_  man inside you."

      "I'm no cock-sucking pervert," he spat back. 

      "How do you know? Servalan made you. You're a clone. I have your memories, but somewhere, deep down, you have  _mine_. Who knows what I used to be? Maybe we're both perverts deep down inside? Maybe you'll enjoy this."

      The look in his enemy's eye was everything he could have wished: hate and anger dominated, but there was fear too. Travis latched onto the fear, parting his victim's robe and running his living hand along the smooth shaft of cock. This was a contest for reality. Only one of them could dominate. Only one of them could be Travis.

      "You want this," he taunted.

      "Mother-fucking drugs!"

      "What? So little control over yourself? I'm ashamed of you."

      Travis pulled the sash from the robe and watched his enemy's instant suspicion with satisfaction.

      "Turn over!" he barked.

      For a moment, he thought he wouldn't be obeyed in spite of the laseron destroyer pressed into the hard, muscled flesh. Then defiance wilted and the other man rolled reluctantly onto his stomach. With the sash, Travis bound his victim's hands, pulling the knot cruelly tight. His erection was almost painful; he'd never known sex could be like this, the sheer power of the high that this dominance gave him.

      "On your knees." He emphasised the command with a hard slap, then laughed inwardly at the unwilling buttocks presented to him in submission.

      Cruelty came easily, now. He knew instinctively what would make this far worse. As he pressed himself in hard, wetted only by a dollop of spittle, he seized his victim's cock, pumping hard even as he thrust within the rigid body, and cried aloud in victory as the other man came. His own orgasm was the strongest he could ever remember. 

      He wiped his cock on the sweat-stained robe and left without even bothering to look back

      

      

The room was dark. He hurt. It didn't seem to matter. Who was he, and what was he? He'd been used and discarded like the cheapest of whores. He'd lost control of his body, reacted in a way that no true man would have reacted. It had given him no pleasure, but he had come. What did that make him? Metal fingers clenched in slow-kindling rage. He would not allow it. He had fought back after Blake had crippled him; he would not allow this to destroy him. He would not. He pounded his fist on the floor. He would have his revenge: on Blake, on the imposter who dared to call himself Travis, on Servalan, on  _everyone_.

      Travis laughed aloud, the sound falling dead on the sound-absorbing walls of the cheap hostel. Seven years ago, there had been an alien scout ship. He'd been in the party that had captured it. The creature had given up little information before it died, but enough. Enough. There were others out there, making the long, slow journey between galaxies, travelling in the empty night. Whenever they appeared, the anti-matter minefield would stop them, everyone agreed on that.

      But Central Control controlled everything. He laughed again, ignoring the cold air on his skin, the pain inside his body, the humiliation in his soul.

      Docholli knew.

      A trap for Blake could become his revenge against everyone. What better way to destroy President Servalan than to unleash the Andromedans against her empire? Because he was strong. He had to be. He had to be Travis.

      

      

"Avon."

      "Hm."

      "I made you an offer. It still stands."

      Avon propped himself on an elbow and looked directly into her eyes. "People who work for you tend to end up dead."

      Cat-like, she rubbed herself against him. "But they didn't have your advantages."

      He shifted his weight to lie on top of her once more. "I'd be the last to underestimate my charms," he said lightly, "but, somehow, I don't think even that would be enough. You can't convince me that I wouldn't end up like Travis."

      Servalan dismissed that opinion with a flick of her fingers. "You have Orac. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that as President I were to grant a pardon to Blake and his crew for their heroic part in holding off the Andromedans. Suppose that, furthermore, you were to give instructions to Orac that should you die or become incapacitated, it would cease to function for myself or any other member of the Federation..."

      She watched his eyes closely. She'd already learnt that to read Avon, you had to read his eyes. There was interest there, interest and amusement. She stroked his side lightly, as much for the tactile pleasure as to remind him of what she too had to offer, and waited.

      "It has possibilities," he said finally.

      Servalan smiled. 'Possibilities' was a lot better than being tossed on the floor, and she still had at least half an hour before the Mellanbys returned...

      

      

Travis pulled out of a tight parabolic orbit and caught the Andromedan in his sights. This was living! Who cared for the dead fantasy of a lost life? He knew now beyond all doubt who he was. He hit the firing stud and whooped aloud.

      "I  _am_  Travis!"

      

      The End

 

 


End file.
